


You Are So Not A Sociopath

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t understand why John enjoys having him as a friend. When he tries to figure it out, things at Baker Street get a wee bit more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are So Not A Sociopath

Sometimes, John wonders what it says about him that he isn’t at all scared of Sherlock Holmes.

By rights, he should have gotten the hell away from Sherlock the first time he came home to find a head in the fridge. The man self-identifies as a sociopath, slices up cadavers on the kitchen table, and manipulates people in ways that John has never seen before, playing his roles with such sincerity that sometimes even John has to remind himself that what he’s seeing is an act. More so than all of that, even, he seems almost incapable of recognizing someone else’s pain – for him, murders are cases and corpses are data that needs to be collected, and not caring about the victims is an easy thing for him to do.

And then there are the times John catches Sherlock watching him. It’s – he still hasn’t figured out what to think of it, really, when he looks up from his laptop to find Sherlock wrapped up like a bat in his giant coat, perched on the sofa and watching him in silence. From anyone else, John would interpret that kind of intensity as a come-on – would find sexual connotations in every flick of Sherlock’s eyes across his body (and, considering that Sherlock is starting to make him question decades of heteronormativity, John is pretty sure he wouldn’t exactly be opposed to the idea). But Sherlock has never shown interest in another human being, so that can’t be the case, and for all that John knows, Sherlock could be mentally exploring his fascination with human anatomy by speculating on what John would look like if Sherlock could cut him apart and take a look inside, or he could be reading John’s thoughts based on the number of ink stains on his hands, or he could be – well, something equally insane, most likely, that John probably doesn’t even want to know about. And there are times he ignores it, goes back to whatever he’s doing until Sherlock eventually wanders off to set things on fire in the kitchen – but the times that he  refuses to look away, meeting Sherlock’s gaze and raising his eyebrows, Sherlock normally stares at him for a bit longer before he starts to smirk, and John usually can’t help the stupid little twitch at the corners of his own mouth, because he might not have a clue what the fuck is going on, but if it’s making Sherlock happy and it doesn’t involve spilled blood, then John is all for it.

So, yes. Sherlock is weird. Rather beyond weird. And he doesn’t seem to have the grasp on basic human conscience that he probably should, and his relationship with death can get a little twisted – but, somehow, John isn’t scared of him, and never once has been, despite all the warnings he’s received to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it’s all the times he’s found Sherlock asleep – usually after days of being awake for a case, running on nothing but nicotine and adrenaline – on the couch, wrapped up in his blue housecoat and looking just as vulnerable as any mere mortal. Or maybe it’s the time they were without a case for a good two weeks, and John eventually found Sherlock curled up in the fetal position beside his bed, hands curled into his hair and his eyes squeezed tightly shut, _too much noise, John, god, I can’t turn it off, help me._ Or maybe it’s the way Sherlock was shaking when he pulled that vest off of John and threw it across the floor, so agitated that he was pointing the damn gun at his own head as he paced the damp tiles. Whatever the reason, John is starting to wonder just how much is sociopath and how much is carefully learned indifference, and by about a month after their encounter with Moriarty, when John finds himself reading a book while Sherlock sits and silently studies him, he decides to do something more beyond just staring back.

“You ever going to tell me what goes on in that bloody genius head of yours when you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That. Right there, what you’re doing. Studying me like I’m one of your experiments.”

“If you were one of my experiments, I would likely have need of petri dishes and a microscope.”

“That’s not an answer.”

John keeps his voice as casual as he can as he folds the book in his lap – pushing Sherlock when he doesn’t want to talk is much like hitting a bear in the face with a stick – and Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer before the tiniest hint of a frown slides across his face.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“You.”

“Yeah, had guessed that much. Was hoping for something more specific.”

“Trying to figure out why you haven’t left me yet.”

It’s a good thing that John is already sitting down, because it feels like he just got punched in the chest. He realizes he’s outright gaping, and Sherlock is still frowning, as though he’s looking for the final clue to a case he’s trying to solve.

“We moved in together exactly eleven months ago today. I have never once done the shopping. My violin playing often wakes you up at four in the morning. Your girlfriends have all left you because of me. I keep human remains in the fridge. I have nearly gotten you killed on sixteen separate occasions. I have no respect for your privacy –”

“Now, hang on –”

“– and yet, somehow, you haven’t left me, and I want to know why.”

“Why I – jesus, Sherlock. How could you even –”

“I simply wish to know –”

“You’re my best friend, you idiot. Why would I want to be anywhere else?”

John’s hands are shaking in his lap, suddenly, and he regrets the words the second they’re out, because that was way too much of a declaration – but Sherlock simply watches him for a second, and then, incredibly, his eyes drop to his knees, and since when does Sherlock avoid eye contact?

“Sherlock?”

John can’t help the incredulity in his own voice – _Where the hell is this even coming from?_ – but Sherlock’s only reaction is no reaction at all, and John only hesitates for a moment before he sets the book to the side and crosses over to the couch. Sherlock keeps his eyes on his own hands as John sits down beside him, and John leans against him just a little bit, knowing that Sherlock will have no qualms about pushing him away if he’s uncomfortable.

“You’ve actually been expecting me to leave? This entire time?”

He had seen a cat get a bucket of water thrown on it once. The reaction is much the same. John hasn’t known that someone’s body could go tense that quickly, and there’s a sudden hint of red across those sharp cheekbones, and – _shit,_ this is Sherlock _embarrassed_ , actually embarrassed, and it’s no wonder it took John a second. He’s never once seen this happen before.

“Past precedent would suggest that –”

“Yes, well, I’m not everyone else, and I’m not going anywhere, so you can stop worrying.”

“I wasn’t worrying.”

“Of course you weren’t.”

John can’t keep the dry amusement from his own voice, but Sherlock still seems tense beside him, and since John has absolutely no idea what to do with all of this, he gets to his feet again, deciding to give Sherlock some space to deal with whatever’s going on in that ridiculous head of his.

“I’m making tea. Want some?”

“No.”

“I – alright –”

But Sherlock’s already getting to his feet, not looking at him as he pulls his coat a little bit closer around him and leaves the room. It’s only when John hears the door slam shut that he figures out how to make his body move again, and then it’s to sink back into the chair he had originally been sitting in.

Well. That had been… odd. Even by Sherlockian standards. But more so than that, even, that had been – well, really quite sad, actually. Either John has failed to make it clear that he’s in it for the long run, or Sherlock’s been so shunned his entire life that he can’t fathom the idea of someone actually wanting to be around him – and either way, that’s several types of not good, and John is definitely going to have to make a cup of tea to deal with this one.

\- - -

The next time John sees Sherlock, it’s some ungodly hour of the morning, the bedroom is dark save for the dim light from a streetlamp outside, and Sherlock is perched at the foot of his bed, still wrapped in his giant black coat. John isn’t exactly sure what it was that woke him up – he knows the Sherlock can be damn silent when he wants to – but he’s awake now, blinking against the sleep in the corners of his mind, and he wonders for a moment what it says about his life that waking up to find his apparently sociopathic flatmate watching him sleep seems almost like a normal occurrence.

“Unless there’s been a murder, I’m not getting up.”

“There hasn’t been.”

“Then may I ask why you’re here?”

“Studying you.”

“Why?”

“Because I understand the danger aspect. You were attracted to danger long before you went to Afghanistan, and now you can’t live without it. Solving cases gives you the danger you crave.”

“Right, lovely, thanks for that. Honestly. Sherlock –”

“What I don’t understand is what I give you. Why you would ever consider me your best friend.”

And again with feeling like Sherlock’s just punched him in the chest.

“Sherlock –”

And then he just stops, and his throat is tightening up, and his lungs are having trouble getting oxygen. He can’t really see Sherlock’s expression, and there doesn’t seem to be anything pained in the question – but John isn’t buying the nonchalance. Sherlock might claim to be fine on his own, but he’s the one who’s broken into John’s room in the middle of the night to ask why John considers him a friend, and there is no way John is going to let this slide as nothing more than emotionless curiosity.

“You – jesus, Sherlock. You are so not a sociopath.”

“I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“Right, of course. My mistake. Can I put the light on?”

There’s no answer except continued silence, and – right, then. Darkness it is, apparently. John hesitates for a moment before he pushes the blankets off and shoves himself down the bed a bit, until his knees are almost brushing up against Sherlock’s, and it’s – a bit disconcerting, really, being so close to him like this, and he thinks he hears Sherlock inhale sharply, but John has never once allowed himself to consider the idea of Sherlock wanting him back, and he’s not about to start now.

"What is this? Seriously. Why the sudden concern?”

“Not concern.”

“Right, of course. Just collecting data, then?”

When absolute silence is the only response, John rubs a hand across his eyes and decides to just accept his ridiculous fate. Not for the first time, he wonders what normal people do with their lives, and whether anyone else gets woken up in the middle of the night by an insane flatmate who suddenly wants to understand how friendship works.

“Are you going to ridicule me if I answer with any kind of sincerity?”

“No.”

“Because if you do –”

“I won’t.”

Sherlock sounds almost disconcertingly sincere, but this whole thing still seems to involve John going out on some kind of dangerous emotional limb, and he’s going to have to make damn sure that his answers don’t involve things like _I think I could fall for you if I’m not careful –_ but he can hear Sherlock’s soft breathing in the dark, can feel the heat radiating from his body, and if Sherlock cares enough to be sitting here with him, then the very least John can do is come up with some kind of coherent answer – even if there’s no damn way he’s willing to be the only one spilling his guts here.

“Alright, fine. But if I tell you why you’re my friend, then you’ve got to say at least one nice thing about me, alright?”

It’s actually beyond ridiculous – and John’s never been a thirteen-year-old girl at a sleepover, but he’s willing to bet there would be similarities – but Sherlock simply nods, the movement just barely visible in the dark, and John gnaws on his lip before he tries to articulate something that makes sense.

“You… alright. You already know I love watching you think. That’s never been a secret.”

Still nothing but silence, and John gnaws on his lip some more as he tries to find something beyond _You’re beautiful and brilliant and you have no idea how much I want you_ , while also doing his best to ignore the way he can nearly feel Sherlock’s legs pressed up against his.

“Um – you make me laugh. You’re loyal, if only to a few people. You’ve tried to step in front of more than one bullet meant for me. You have a bad habit of goading psychopaths to keep their attention from me. And – well. You’ll likely hate this, but you’re not nearly as inhuman as you’d like to think you are, and moments – like this – when that’s made obvious – well. It just makes me want to stay more.”

He doesn’t realize the complete truth of that last bit until it’s out, and when Sherlock’s response is nothing but silence, John is suddenly nervous – _definitely a dangerous emotional limb to be climbing out on_ – and he folds his hands in his lap to stop himself from reaching out to touch Sherlock.

“Alright, then. Now that I’m done making an arse of myself, you got anything nice to say?”

Another long moment of silence, in which John considers sitting on his own hands to keep them to himself, and then Sherlock shifts slightly on the bed, and makes a noise that sounds almost like clearing his throat.

“You help with the noise.”

"Sorry?”

“The noise. The data. The static. In my head. The constant stream of – there’s always too much, and you – you help. Just being around you helps. You make everything quieter.”

And – jesus. John is just about reaching his quota of feeling like Sherlock’s reached right into his chest and actually pulled on his heart strings. He knows he’s gaping again, knows he should find something to say – but that, right there, is pretty much a declaration of love in Sherlockian terms, and if John has the ability to have any impact – let alone such a major one – on anything to do with Sherlock’s thought processes, then clearly he’s underestimated just how much he’s gotten underneath Sherlock’s skin.

“I – wow, Sherlock. That’s – wow. Probably one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

When there’s no verbal response, and Sherlock remains statue still on the bed, John has a moment of wishing he could see Sherlock’s face – but then Sherlock shifts, and his legs press right up against John’s, and a hand comes down to rest on his knee, and John can’t quite help the way his voice shoots up about an octave.

“Sherlock?”

The only response is the sound of Sherlock’s breathing – though John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock could actually hear how loud and fast his ridiculous heart is beating. The air between them seems to grow tight for a moment – or maybe John’s lungs just aren’t working right – and then Sherlock’s fingers tighten against his knee, sending a flash of heat up his leg, before Sherlock pulls away and slides off the bed, leaving the room without another word. John only realizes he’s gaping when he manages to get his mouth closed again, and then he lies back on the bed beneath him, his breath coming too fast and his heart nearly beating out of his chest.

Well – shit. Whatever all that had been, if a single touch from Sherlock is enough to make his head spin, then John is in so, so much trouble.

\- - -

By the time John pulls himself out of bed the next day, Sherlock is already gone from the apartment, and John thinks about texting him before he decides to just leave him be for a while. He doesn’t come back until late evening, and when John looks up from the book he’s reading, it’s to watch as Sherlock opens a bag, picks up a cutting board, and dumps a collection of hands onto it. It’s a new low, even for him, and John has to massage the tension of his eyes before he tries to speak.

“I was fond of that cutting board, you know.”

No response. Apparently they’ve reached the point of selective deafness, where Sherlock seems convinced that if he ignores John, it means that he won’t be able to hear him. Normally there are a few other stages between the confrontation, and the point where Sherlock starts ignoring him, but whatever it is that happened last night, it seems to have gotten under Sherlock’s skin more than normal. And as much as John wants the details – wants to know what that touch was about, and wants to know if Sherlock is still convinced that John is going to run off and leave him – he can wait to get his answers on another day, when Sherlock looks less like a cornered alley cat.

“Look, Sherlock – if you don’t want to talk about last night, we don’t have to. I’ll let it go until you say otherwise. But I’d really rather not spend the next few days in awkward silence.”

Sherlock pauses in the process of picking up a knife to – actually, John doesn’t want to know what Sherlock is planning to do to those hands. Instead, he holds his breath until Sherlock puts the knife down again and glances over at him, and whatever was bothering him last night, there’s no hint of it now. Not for the first time, John marvels at Sherlock’s ability to take any kind of sentiment and shove it away into some corner of his brain where he doesn’t have to think about it.

“So we’re good, then? You can stop destroying my cutlery, and maybe you and I can grab some food later on?”

There’s another moment of silence, and then Sherlock nods slightly, and John gives him a quick smile before he opens his book again, letting Sherlock have some privacy. Whatever the hell had happened between them – and however much it makes his chest ache, to think of Sherlock being so overwhelmed by having someone who considers him a friend – John likely won’t be getting his answers any time soon, and he’s not going to do either of them any favours by dwelling on it.

\- - -

A few months go past.

John never actually gets his answers, and he never figures out what Sherlock meant by that little knee grope, but Sherlock at least stops perching on the couch and watching him, so John takes it as a sign that Sherlock might be a little less worried about him running off. Then, the fiasco with Irene Adler happens, and in addition to John worrying his damn head off over Sherlock, he also has to deal with resigning himself to the realization that, whatever his messy feelings for Sherlock might be, there is no chance that Sherlock is ever going to return them. The claim of being a sociopath might be growing weaker every day, and Irene may have proved that Sherlock isn’t as immune to emotion as he might like to be, but regardless of whether Sherlock had wanted her for her brain and her body or just her brain, neither option bodes well for John, and he jumps back into the world of dating with some kind of desperate enthusiasm that seems pathetic even to him.

Then, there’s a night when they’re working on a case at a local bar, and it’s also the night they find out that even the great Sherlock Holmes can’t tell that a drink’s been spiked just by looking at it. By the time John is done making Lestrade promise that the police will check every single second of the security cameras, Sherlock is clinging to him and babbling into his ear, something about how he’s going to start cooking tongues in the microwave (and the look on Donovan’s face might not make the situation worth it, but it definitely helps a bit), and by the time they’ve gotten home and Sherlock is in bed and under the covers, Sherlock is trying to pull John down onto the bed with him, and John wants to find whoever did this and tear his fucking lungs out.

_“John –”_

“Yes, I’m here, just –”

“Remember that case with the – there was a rat, and then the fire chief – and they both –”

Sherlock cuts off his own story with an expression that looks almost surprised, his eyes blown wide and bright in his face and his hair adorably mussed up as he stares up at John from the pillow, and John can’t stop a small smile, even though he can still feel the anger bleeding out of him.

“You just sleep, alright?”

Sherlock seems to consider it for a moment, and then he lets go of John and brings his hands up over his face, pressing them down hard against his eyes.

“Hurts.”

“Where?”

“Head.”

“Best not mix painkillers with –”

“All the time. Can’t stop it. Too much data. All the time – never stops. All that noise. It hurts.”

And there is… absolutely nothing that John can say to that. No idea where he would even start – because even if this isn’t the first time he’s hearing something like this, he still hasn’t figured out any words that would do justice. Instead, he breathes through the tightness in his throat as he puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, wishing there was more he could do.

“Sherlock, you – just sleep, alright?”

“You help. Being close to you – you, only you. You weaken it. You give me focus.”

Sherlock’s hand creeps down into his own, his eyes wide and disconcertingly earnest as his warm fingers tangle around John’s suddenly shaking ones, and John carefully forces himself to breathe, because – christ.

“I know, Sherlock. You told me before, and – I’m – that’s good. I’m glad I can help. But for now, why don’t you –”

Whatever John was going to say is cut off when Sherlock’s other hand shoots up to grab on to him, and he tugs in a way that seems much too strong for someone who’s so incredibly drugged. By the time John realizes what’s happened, he’s pressed down against Sherlock’s chest with his face against Sherlock’s shoulder and his body bent in half, feet still on the floor as Sherlock’s arms tighten around his back, and the sudden closeness steals whatever air John had managed to get. He immediately tries to pull away, _do not think about how good this feels,_ but Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, and John is pretty sure his heart is going to beat clean out of his chest.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to –”

“Stay with me.”

“Let me go, alright? You need to –”

“Please, John. Stay with me. I’ve never had a friend before.”

Sherlock seems to have reached a place of outright pleading, his mouth pressed right up against John’s ear and his fingers tight against John’s back, and John closes his eyes as he just – christ. He really needs to not be hearing this. It sounds like the answers he had wanted, yes – and something inside him is burning warm and happy, because even if he already knew that Sherlock does consider him a friend, it’s still nice to hear it out loud – but he doesn’t want them under these circumstances, since Sherlock is going to hate himself if he remembers any of this.

“Please, John. I don’t want –”

“I’m not going anywhere, alright? I’m not –”

"I was alone before I met you, and I thought I was okay, and then you happened, and I won’t be okay if you leave me, I can’t go back to the way I was before, but someday you’re going to leave me, because everyone leaves me, and I never fucking _cared,_ and then I met you and now I –”

“Let go.”

“ _John –_ ”

“I can’t lie down if you’re clinging to me.”

John barely gets the words out – _do not think about it now; just get him to sleep_ – and Sherlock immediately goes limp underneath him, his hands sliding down John’s back to cling to his hips until John yanks them off and folds them on top of  Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock blinks up at him for a moment, his eyes owlishly wide and his skin flushed clean across his cheekbones, and John takes a steadying breath before he lies down on the bed, on top of the covers and still completely dressed.

“John –”

“I’m not snuggling in there with you.”

“But –”

“No. I’m here, I’m not leaving, and you’re safe. Go to sleep, alright?”

He reaches over to turn off the lamp, but as soon as John rolls onto his stomach and curls up with his arm as a pillow, there’s a hand resting on top of his own, and John can’t quite stop a flinch, because – this is so many kinds of not good. His stupid heart is aching at the simple touch, and he must have some kind of masochistic streak to still be lying here; but then Sherlock’s fingers curl into his own, and John resigns himself to staying, closing his eyes as he tries to breathe through it all, the words _I won’t be okay if you leave me_ running on a loop inside his mind.

\- - -

When John wakes up again, it’s because Sherlock is groaning beside him, and John barely gets himself upright in time to roll to the side and grab the bucket he’d put there the night before. By the time Sherlock is done being sick, he’s shaking, his skin pale as parchment and involuntary tears streaking down his cheeks, and John wants to find a wall to pre-emptively bang his head against, because Sherlock does not do well with being vulnerable, and that does not bode well for one John Watson.

_Great. This morning is off to such a wonderful start._

“Try not to move. I’ll find some medication.”

“What – John –”

“Some bastard drugged you. Lestrade’s going through the security footage.”

Sherlock blinks up at him in a way that’s rather pitiful – and John’s never been drugged before, but he’d imagined that the morning after migraine isn’t pleasant – and by the time he’s left the room and come back with a clean bucket and the pain medication he’d been prescribed for his leg, Sherlock is curled into a ball with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and the blanket pulled up over his shoulders.

“Here. Sominex for nausea, and tramacet for pain. It’s a synthetic opioid. Should stop the –”

“I know what it is.”

It was probably meant to be snappish – and considering that Sherlock is rarely people-friendly, it stands to reason that he’d be extra vicious in a situation like this – but it just sounds pathetic, and John carefully puts the drugs and glass of water on the nightstand, knowing that sticking around isn’t going to do either of them any good.

“If you need me, my mobile will be on. Yours is by the bed.”

Sherlock’s only response is to mutter something as he slides his head underneath a pillow, and John stares at him for a moment before he concedes defeat and leaves, closing the door as quietly as he can behind him. He doesn’t suppose he’d want anyone around, either, if he was in that kind of physical pain – and if Sherlock hadn’t just been babbling nonsense last night, and if _I won’t be okay if you leave me_ actually has some validity, then John is pretty sure he can make peace with Sherlock being less than charming at a time like this.

\- - -

By the time Sherlock wanders out of the bedroom, wrapped up in a blanket with his hair pointing in every direction, it’s well into the evening hours, and he still looks like hell. Standing beside the stove making soup, it takes everything John has to not walk across the room and try to give the poor man a hug.

“Think you could keep some soup down?”

Sherlock’s only response is to pull his blanket tighter around himself and sit down at the kitchen table, staring down at it with possibly the most unfocused expression John has ever seen – and between the tramacet and sominex and the likely lingering migraine, that’s really not so surprising. What’s a little more surprising is the way that Sherlock can’t quite seem to look at him, and John bites down the question of whether or not Sherlock remembers anything from last night.

“Sherlock –”

“Most people would use last night against me.”

Ah. So he does remember, then – or at least some of it. John hesitates for a brief moment, and then carefully sets the spoon down on the counter before he sits down across from Sherlock.

“Before you go getting all prickly and defensive about it, you’d best remember that I’m not most people.”

"No. You’re not. You’re my friend.”

Sherlock is still looking at the table, and John frowns a bit, because that doesn’t sound like – that is not exactly a very Sherlockian thing to say, even in this strange new world where they actually discuss things like emotions.

“Sherlock –”

“May I have a hug? I understand that that is what friends do.”

At that, John has to massage away some of the tension in his temples, even as something swoops warm and hot inside him, makes him want to reach across the table and take Sherlock’s hand in his own – and then Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes, his pupils blown and his expression softer than John has ever seen it, and – god. John is so, so fucked. And if Sherlock doesn’t quit looking at him like that, his heart might actually manage to beat right out of his chest.

“You’re stoned.”

“And you’re still not hugging me.”

“Sherlock –”

“If you don’t want to –”

“No – I – christ. That’s not –”

But Sherlock’s still staring at him, something that looks like hurt seeming to flash across his face, and John gives himself up for lost, takes a steadying breath before he gets to his feet, crosses around the table, and then watches as Sherlock pulls himself upright, the blanket falling to the chair behind him and his body weaving slightly until John puts his arms around him. Instantly, Sherlock goes limp, pressing in close and tightening his arms almost painfully around him, and holy fuck, that’s all of him pressed up against John, and John is going to pass out if he’s not careful.

“Any better?”

To his credit, his voice barely shakes. Sherlock makes a noise that could be muffled agreement, and John gives it a good ten seconds before he pulls away, wanting to get Sherlock back into bed, and doing his best to ignore how wide-eyed and flushed and ridiculously perfect Sherlock looks.

“C’mon, why don’t you –”

Sherlock kisses him.

Everything freezes, and John’s mind washes white, stopping the air in his lungs and making something inside him crack apart. By the time he’s able to think again, Sherlock’s hands are curled against his hips, and his mouth is moving soft and slow against John’s own, warm and wet and with the minty taste of toothpaste, and John only realizes he’s not pushing Sherlock away – realizes that his mouth is sliding open, giving Sherlock space to slide his tongue across his lips – when Sherlock makes a soft, needy sound against John’s mouth, and John sucks in a gasp of air and springs back so suddenly they both stumble.

“Sherlock –”

But his voice is gone. Sherlock’s eyes are blown wide, his pale skin flushed and his mouth hanging open and his expression more vulnerable than John has ever seen – and even as John watches, it’s like a shutter slams shut across Sherlock’s face, a flash of pain followed by absolute nothingness, and he’s gone before John can stop him, leaving the room without a word. For a moment, all John can do is stare at the doorway – and then he sinks into the chair behind him, his legs less than steady and his breath coming in sharp wheezes and his heart beating too fast and _holy shit, had that actually just happened? Had Sherlock actually – had he –_

Christ.

Closing his eyes, John puts his elbows on his knees, rests his face in his hands, and does his best to just breathe.

\- - -

In the end, John decides to let Sherlock come to him, but by the time twenty four hours have passed and the only sign of life John has detected has been the sound of the shower, he decides that Sherlock slowly starving to death while he hides in his room is all sorts of not good, and he takes a couple of minutes to seriously concentrate on getting his shit together before he knocks on Sherlock’s door.

“Sherlock?”

There’s nothing. John gnaws on his lip for a moment before trying the handle, and when the door slides open, it’s to the sight of Sherlock curled up in the fetal position on his bed, wrapped in his blue house coat with his hair damp on the pillow and his eyes clear again, though they seem to be focused anywhere but on John.

“Can I come in?”

Still nothing. Not even a flinch, or a glance in his direction, and John ignores the way his lungs are having difficulty working as he closes the door and sits down beside Sherlock, staring down at him as Sherlock does his best to still not look at him.

“What were you going to do, hide in here forever?”

“If necessary.”

Sherlock sounds disgusted with himself, and John pauses for a moment, his throat tightening at the way Sherlock has pretty much curled as far into himself as he can be, before he hesitantly places a hand on Sherlock’s leg, not missing the way Sherlock’s entire body pulls even tighter.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know. You haven’t chased me away.”

“You can hardly expect me to believe –”

“Was that the drugs, or have you been wanting to do that?”

There’s nothing but silence for a moment. Then, Sherlock somehow curls in even closer around himself, and John feels his chest start to ache unpleasantly, because this is – this is actually painful to watch, as Sherlock visibly swallows and still somehow manages to not look at him.

“Which one do you want it to be?”

“You’re the genius. It can’t be that hard to figure out.”

It feels like free falling, the words somehow making it out of his throat, and when he carefully presses his hand down harder against Sherlock’s leg, his fingers sliding across the soft material of his dressing gown, Sherlock finally turns to look at him, eyes wide, an unmistakable mixture of hope and disbelief there, and John feels happiness swoop hot and perfect and completely overwhelming across his entire body.

“I’d really like to kiss you again, if that's okay.”

John is proud of himself for even getting the words out of his mouth, and the only response Sherlock seems capable of is a shaky nod, his lips parting and his breath coming faster – and when John leans towards him, Sherlock meets him halfway, and they end up with John sprawled out on top of him, their hearts slamming together and John’s head spinning and Sherlock’s lips soft and shaky and absolutely fucking perfect against his own, warm and damp and the best thing John has ever felt. They only break apart again when air becomes a necessity, and then Sherlock shudders against him and snakes his arms tight around him, pulling him in close until John’s face is buried into the safety of Sherlock’s neck, and when he feels Sherlock’s mouth press soft and warm into his hair, hears Sherlock murmur his name, it feels like finally coming home.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I promise.”

There’s nothing for a moment, and then Sherlock sighs against him, his arms going even tighter around John as he seems to try to mold their bodies together, and all John can do is close his eyes and just cling to the feeling of Sherlock’s heart beating against his own.


End file.
